


flower shop blues

by beatboxbmo



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Confessions, Getting Together, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, they're both dumb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 16:21:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13639905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beatboxbmo/pseuds/beatboxbmo
Summary: eita works at a flower shop. it's simple, it's easy, but unfortunately there's a weird man that likes to come in on fridays and ruins his peace. eita does not have a crush on him.





	flower shop blues

**Author's Note:**

> it's been awhile! i'm rusty at this writing thing so hopefully y'all enjoy!

When the man enters the shop, Eita isn’t even surprised.

He levels his gaze as the man saunters forward, eyes darting around the shop curiously but feet steadfast as he makes his way to the counter, already set on what he’s going to buy. And when he stops at the counter, hands in his pockets, shoulders thrown back in a lazy way, his lips turn into an all-knowing smirk.

Eita narrows his eyes.

“I’ll get the usual,” is all he says, even going so far as to place his elbow on the counter and leans closer towards Eita, as if he’s trying to be seductive.

Eita would be lying if he said the man wasn’t attractive, despite his bushy eyebrows and his stupid smirk and the way he buys an odd assortment of roses every other week and doesn’t say why. He’s had customers want stranger requests, and honestly he could be using them for something simple or heartfelt. His face says otherwise, but Eita tries not to let it bother him that he doesn’t know what they’re being used for. As long as they’re paid for, he shouldn’t care one way or the other. 

“How many this time?” he asks, moving to step around the counter and head for the roses, shearing scissors in hand.

The guy trails not too far behind, Eita eyeing him wearily. He starts with three red roses before moving on, already knowing the man will want a variety of color.

“Uh, make it thirteen.”

He cuts thirteen roses.

He doesn’t care to make the bouquet beautiful. They’ve done this enough times that the man has asked Eita not to go fancy on the wrapping, especially after learning that it adds to the total price.  
Wrapped, ready to go, and paid for, the man starts to head towards the door without any sly remarks like usual. He holds the bouquet against his chest, but before he makes it three feet from the counter, he rushes back and pulls a rose from the mess and lays it down in front of Eita.

“For you,” he says, no smirk or backwards glance thrown Eita’s way as he runs out the store.

All he can do is stare at the rose in shock.

This, is a surprise.

>>><<<

He doesn’t see the man for a month.

Eita would be lying if he said he hadn’t been anticipating his unusual customer every other Friday, like _usual_ , but with no such luck. He grows a little hopeful every time the door dings open, then has to hide his disappointment when he sees it’s not him.

He let the rose die.

He didn’t care for it like he would others. He left it on the counter to wither by its lonesome until his coworker eventually threw it away three days later, side-eyeing him the entire day as if afraid to catch whatever Eita had.

It’s been a month, and he’s growing angry.

Not necessarily at the customer, since they didn’t know one another and Eita has no right to be angry at him, but he’s frustrated with himself for falling over one single rose.

It’s not the first time someone has given him a flower he’s just sold. Mostly shy girls who returned after a heartbreak who’s taken comfort in Eita’s smile. Once in a blue moon other men have tried to woo Eita, but it never works. Their wild gestures and slick words just don’t sound right to him. And if they ever got to know him, learned how broken he is, they’d run the other way.

A month and two weeks later, on a cold May night just as Eita is closing up for the day, double checking that the plants are tucked safely into their pots, the door dings open.

“We’re closing,” he calls without turning around, his hands gently lifting the petals of a carnation. It’s been drooping more and more; tomorrow he’ll have to take a proper look at it to see if it can be saved.

“That’s fine,” he hears, “I’m not lookin’ to buy anything.”

Eita whips around at the voice, recognizing it immediately.

The man stands with his shoulders slumped and hands shoved deep in his pockets. He looks like he has not a care in the world, and that kind of nonchalance pisses off Eita.

He glares and turns back to the flower.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, “you misheard me. We’re closed. No one is allowed to be in here anymore. You need to leave.”

There’s a throaty chuckle behind him.

“You sound like you’re angry.”

“I’m not angry. Why would I be angry?”

“You tell me.”

Eita doesn’t reply.

Footsteps come closer, until the man is standing just to the left of Eita.

“You haven’t been missing me, have you?”

“Of course not,” Eita says gruffly, dropping the petal and moving back to the counter to rearrange the rocks in his zen garden. They weren’t out of place, but moving them around calms him. “Why would I miss someone I don’t even know?”

“Wow. And after all those times we said hello and exchanged money.”

“Are you insinuating something?”

The man just raises his hands in a placating gesture.

Eita huffs and turns back to his garden.

“Listen,” the man says after a moment of silence, “I just wanted to tell you… thank you. For all the flowers. It helped.”

He doesn’t turn around, doesn’t want to acknowledge the man, but against his better judgement Eita asks, “Helped what?”

There’s a throaty cough disguised as a laugh. “Uh--helped me get my idiot friends together. They’ve been dancing around each other since we were kids.”

His eyebrows furrow. He glances over his shoulder. “What’d you do?”

The smirk melts into something softer, something almost precious. Eita ignores the way his heart skips a beat.

“Well, they live in the same building, so I’d take the petals and make a path from their doors. I’d throw ‘em on their bed, their tables, even used ‘em in a car once.”

Eita’s heart skips for an entirely different reason.

“You mutilated my flowers?”

“Wha--”

“If you wanted petals, you can buy that fake shit online. How dare you destroy my flowers for such an idiotic gesture?”

“Hey now--”

“No,” Eita rips his arm away when the man tries to grab him. Stomping, he heads for the front door, fuming over what this man had the audacity to do to his flowers. These are living things, you don’t just--you don’t just _tear them apart_ for no reason! “I want you to leave. I want--I can’t even look at you right now. I don’t--I don’t want to see you again.”

Maybe he’s being over dramatic, but he can’t look at the man. His face is burning, he can’t find enough air, and he’s just--

“Okay,” he hears.

Something clinks on the counter but he’s too focused keeping the front door open to glance over. He stiffens when the man shuffles past a moment later, the welcoming scent of mint trailing him. Has he always smelled like mint?

The door swings shut as soon as the man is gone, and Eita heads for the counter, slumping against it and resting his head in his hands.  
He may have gone overboard. After all, he knows the flowers die eventually. Just minutes before the man showed up he was contemplating the execution of one. Tearing the petals off flowers and strewing them about for romantic purposes is something he’s heard of before, seen a dozen times in movies, and has even had happen to him once, a very long time ago. The clean up sucks, but the gesture is indeed pretty damn romantic. 

Still. 

Eita is too frustrated to consider the idea romantic. He’s angry, he’s fired up, he wants to yell at the man some more. He tries to ignore the hurt expression on the man’s face before he left. Tries to ignore the way his own chest hurts.

On the counter sits a rock the same shade of brown as the stranger’s eyes.

Eita pretends to hate it.

>>><<<

It started as a way to get out of the rain.

Random summer storms happen all the time, but being as ill-prepared as he always is, Issei ducked into the first shop he could when it started pouring.

He was just supposed to be there long enough for the storm to pass so he wouldn’t get his new inexpensive suit soaked; he never intended to fall for the man behind the counter who was surrounded by flowers and who radiated a gentle smile that melted Issei’s heart. That still melts his heart.

It took him weeks to work up the nerve to say anything, and when he did all he could see were the giant bouquets of ruby-red roses, so to save face he bought a baker’s dozen with his charming smile. It wasn’t until he was walking home with the flowers held against his chest, petals softly ghosting under his chin, that he realized what he’d done.

He kept the roses until they died, even went so far as to press a few into books and failed at attempts to regrow them.

He kept every single rose until it died.

There was no petal tearing, no rose paths created. The one time he did do that for his friends he _did_ buy a pack of fake petals online. They were a bitch to clean up the next evening, but the sappy, love-struck expressions on his friends’ faces was worth it.

The lie was supposed to be romantic. A way to sway the florist into falling for Issei. He’s practiced his smirks and has remained mysterious and aloof to increase his charm, and he was sure by telling a simple story about helping his friends would kick-start something between them.

But instead it backfired and Issei has spent the past week staring at the trinkets of roses he’s created, wondering why he opened his big mouth.

A mod-podged rose under a vase like in _Beauty and the Beast_ sits on his desk, glaring at him as it droops. A collage of pressed petals behind a frame weep above his bed. The rose garden terrarium on his bookshelf turns its back on him. Everything he’s tried to preserve is a reminder of how horrible and cowardly he is, and he can blame no one but himself.

His roommate suggests throwing them all away when he realizes why Issei is depressed, but he could never do that. Even though their time has come and gone and they’re suspended in an in-between place, Issei could never throw away the reminders. He’s worked hard to create them, even enjoyed the fantasy of showing the florist what he has done.

It would be easier to forget him, to forget it all.

But it’s a little hard to forget someone your heart wants.

Issei spends the next couple of weeks taking the long way to and from work to avoid the flower shop. It hurts, knowing he can’t pass it by every day. Hurts to know he won’t see the florist again. It shouldn’t matter, because as he had said, they don’t really know one another. They’re strangers; he doesn’t even know the florist’s name! And after always paying in cash, there was no way for Issei to share his.

So he mopes, he avoids, and hopes that with time, he’ll be able to forget the florist with the beautiful smile and hands scarred by thorns.

And it works, it’s easy, until he sees said florist one evening while he’s out buying groceries.

Issei literally _freezes_ when he catches sight of the other man at the end of the aisle, looking for all to see like he has not a care in the world, despite whatever it is he’s holding is causing his brow to furrow and his lips to pinch in the same way Issei has seen when he rearranges bouquets.

Does he continue down the aisle? Does he _really_ need whatever is down there? He could circle around. But he might run into the florist at the other end. He could just abandon his cart and leave the building completely. That sounds much safer.

He starts to do just that, hands leaving the rail, feet and body turning as he prepares to flee, heart pounding away wildly, when a sharp “Hey” stops him. 

Does he break through this freeze and run? Does he turn to meet his end? Or does he stand still and hope this will all pass and he won’t remember a thing?

“Haven’t seen you in awhile,” the voice says, followed by a short cough. Squeaking wheels followed by the sight of the cart as it stops right beside Issei’s. The florist looks him over, breaking the spell.

All his charm, his mysterious aloofness, is gone. Despite being taller, broader, Issei feels like a child about to be scolded. He can’t meet the florist’s gaze.

“You told me to stay away, so I did.”

“I didn’t think you were the type to listen to others.”

“I listen to those I respect.”

That shuts up the florist, and Issei is able to chance a glimpse at him to see his surprised expression. It feels like a win, but Issei just feels sick.

He clears his throat and looks away, silence falling between them.

Issei is jostled into movement by a mother and her children as they edge around him to get into the aisle. The florist moves his own cart back, closer to Issei’s, and they watch in silence as the woman moves down the row slowly, one hand on the cart, one in the hand of her youngest of three.

What now? He can’t risk saying anything else on the off chance it’ll piss off the florist even more. He can’t do that, can’t _stomach_ doing that again. That last night replayed in his mind over and over--such a simple thing, blown out of proportion. Issei and his lies, causing trouble again.

“What was with the rock?”

The voice is lower than before, and when Issei looks up, the florist’s cheeks are tinted and his eyes are averted. His lips are pinched like earlier, brow furrowed furiously, but the look doesn’t scream anger or frustration. He can’t place it, but it doesn’t feel hostile.

“What rock?” 

“The one you left, that night. Did you forget it there?”

Ah, the rock.

Now it’s Issei’s turn to clear his throat, his turn for his cheeks to pinken. He rocks back on his heels and grips the rail of his cart. Truth? Or another lie?

The truth comes out, sweet and sour. “It was for you. For your garden.”

“Why?”

Issei shrugs. “A pretty rock for a pretty garden.”

“That doesn’t explain _why_.” There’s that furrow again, that pinch. Issei starts to enjoy it.

He shrugs again, not knowing what else to tell him. Any more could ruin whatever this is. He can’t lie, can’t tell the truth. How he scrounged for the rock at stores and even that one weekend he went to the beach, how the color eerily matches his eyes, how he wanted the florist to have a piece of him. It’s too much.

A phone rings, causing Issei to jump. The florist sighs and reaches into a pocket to pull out his cell. Issei takes the moment of distraction to bolt, leaving his cart and its belongings behind.  


He didn’t need to eat this week, not really.

>>><<<

After one of his regulars leave, bouquet held tightly to his chest as he makes his way to the cemetery, Eita tries not to think about how many of his flowers decorate tombstones.

It’s not a comforting thought. Flowers are meant for the living--what joy do they bring the dead? He’s never understood the act of leaving flowers for those who have passed, doesn’t understand why living flowers are meant to be cut and killed for those already gone. It’s pointless, a waste.

He can’t tell anyone that though. He’s in the business of selling flowers, after all, and each one he grows is just so it will be cut and killed for someone for something pointless.

To distract himself from the depressing thoughts, he focuses instead on his little zen garden.

The brown rock stands apart from the rest, its dull brown sides still rough and etched, whereas the others are shiny black and water-worn smooth. It sits in the center, alone, where it’s remained this whole time.

That man… Eita doesn’t know what to make of him.

He’d looked nothing like the confident and cocky guest that always barged in with his shit-eating smirk and asked for absurd amounts of flowers every other week. He thought he hated the man, or at least disliked him enough to never think about him--after all, he never thought about when he might pop back up again when he _was_ popping up all the time--but after that night… after the meeting at the store, Eita can’t shake the thought of him.

He’s never seen such sad eyes before.

It can’t be because of him, right? They don't share anything. There’s nothing tying them together. Eita should be able to forget all about him, to pretend he doesn’t exist. There’s nothing about Eita that the man should even care about, or find interesting, nothing to be sad over. It should be easy to move on. To pretend that everything is okay.

Except he can’t even sleep at night remembering the way the man had just run from him, as if he was afraid of Eita or what he might say.

Honestly, it hurts his feelings.

There’s nothing to be done, though. Unless he stalks the grocery store they apparently both frequent--Eita wouldn’t be surprised if the other man switched stores just to avoid him, like Eita knows he’s switched his morning and evening route in front of the store--or he comes back to the shop, there’s no way of finding him again. Eita just needs to move on, forget about him, focus on the flowers.  
The flowers seem restless today, almost as if they’re trying to tell him something. But flowers are just flowers, even if they grow and move on their own, so Eita tends to them normally and pretends everything is normal. He doesn’t think about the man again, doesn’t jump every time the door opens, doesn’t spend the rest of the month waiting for the impossible to happen.

Two months later though, it does.

He’s not working, he’s not out grocery shopping. Iwaizumi sits on his left as they ride the bus to the movie theater, the two of them enjoying their day off together for the first time in forever. Iwaizumi sits with one leg crossed over the other and his phone in his lap, all his focus on whatever’s playing on the screen. Eita keeps looking at the people around them, hands rubbing against each other to smooth out the kinks caused by the tightening scars. The cold always did mess with his hands. Damn thorns.

It’s probably only because he’s watching others that he notices a set of eyes on him, making his breath hitch and body go rigid.

Caught, the man ducks his head and goes to turn away. There’s nowhere to run on a moving bus, so Eita is able to watch the man shake from only a few seats away. He wants to call out, to sit closer, to ask what the hell is wrong with him. But his friend is sitting right next to him, and even though they’re close, Eita hasn’t told anyone about the annoying customer that plagues his thoughts.

The bus doesn’t stop. Eita is able to continue staring. The man jerks his head and body around to see if Eita is still watching, to see if they’re stopping soon, to see if there’s a way to run. Eita tries not to get distracted by the way the man’s messy hair bounces with the movement.

He does start to grow a little angry though. He can _tell_ that the other wants to run. Doesn’t want to confront Eita again. It’s not like he’s going to do anything! He just wants to know why he ran the last time they met. _Why_ he gave Eita that stupid, ugly rock. Why he can’t look at Eita right now.

“You okay?” he hears beside him.

He turns towards Iwaizumi, startles when his friend startles at his look. Eita smooths out his expression. He glances to the side again, looking for the stranger, relieved to find he’s still there.

Iwaizumi follows his gaze but doesn’t say anything. Eita just nods, swallows the lump in his throat, and bites his tongue.

He can feel himself building up to doing something stupid. He doesn’t know what yet, but he can feel it. And it seems as though Iwaizumi can feel it too, since he slips his phone back into his pocket and folds his arms over his chest, his glare a lot more obvious as he trains it on the man down the bus, causing him to fidget even more.

It’s not their stop, but when Eita sees the man jump up he jumps up too. He doesn’t wait for Iwaizumi to say or do anything as he rushes off the bus and towards the man.

What is he doing? What is he _going_ to do?

“Hey--wait!” he calls. The man’s curly black hair stands well above the rest of the crowd, and it’s easy to track. It ducks, so Eita knows the man can hear him. He keeps pushing through the crowd, eyes trained on those stupid curls as they bob and weave. A fleeting thought: is Iwaizumi following him? Does Eita care if he is or isn’t?

The curls dip again out of sight; Eita curses, then sees them pop up again as they turn into an alley. He surges forward, not even sure why he’s trying so hard to catch the guy.

The man is panting and sprinting towards the other end of the alley, which opens up to another side street. If he makes it to the other side before Eita can reach him, he’ll be lost forever. Cursing, Eita urges his feet to move faster and yells, “Wait!”

The man jerks, his footsteps fumbling. Eita sucks in another lungful to prepare for more chasing but--but the man stumbles, stops, his form bending over as he pants.

Eita skids to a stop a few feet away, his own chest heaving from the adrenaline from the chase.

A gravelly voice gasps out, “What the hell do you want?”

Eita may not have prepared for anything in this confrontation, but especially did not expect hostility. He’s not used to it, was hoping to see some of that mirth and ego from months before, or even that almost fearfulness he saw that night in the grocery store. But he doesn’t let it deter him. He squares his shoulders.

“Why do you keep running from me?”

“Why do you keep chasing me?” his voice is louder, smoother, but with a crack at the end; his body straightens as his hands are thrown to the side, the gesture almost vulnerable. Eita is once more met with those sad eyes.

He gulps around the lump in his throat. “Well, if you just talked to me like a normal person I wouldn’t have to chase you.”

The man lowers his hands. Even though nothing else about his posture shifts, it’s clear to see he closes himself off from Eita.

“You told me you never wanted to see me again. I was respecting that.”

Ah, that’s right. Eita’s cheeks burn with shame. That night at the florist shop he said those words, and was reminded when they met at the grocery store. Going weeks between meetings has muddled  
Eita’s memories, and he’s angry at himself for erasing the reason _why_ this man no longer shows up at his flower shop. This really is all his fault.

“You shouldn’t listen to me,” he grumbles, turning away, not wanting to see the man’s expression, not knowing what he’d _want_ to see as he gives a semi-apology, “I say dumb shit I don’t mean.”

“Well I’m a dumb shit that listens,” gravel crunches underfoot as the man steps closer. Eita flinches when a hand reaches out to brush his bangs away from his face.

His cheeks burn brighter than ever before, both in embarrassment and annoyance. Since when has this guy been so tall? So touchy? Why is that mint scent so intoxicating? “What are you doing?”

When he looks up, Eita is hit full force with the man’s smirk--no, that’s not the usual confident, cocky smirk he walks into the shop with. This is softer. This is something sweet and genuine, and it’s directed straight at Eita.

The fingers linger as they trail gently down Eita’s cheek and along the curve of his jaw, so light he almost doesn’t feel the physical touch but can still feel their heat. He misses their touch when they slip under his chin and pull away. The smile starts to falter. They’re close enough that Eita can smell cocoa on the man’s warm breath when he sighs. “Sorry. For bein’ a liar and a coward.”

Afraid of speaking too loudly and ruining the moment, Eita whispers, “What are you talking about?”

His lips twitch upwards, but the smile doesn’t fully come back. “You’re kind of a scary guy. And I like that about you. I like a lot of things about you actually,” he laughs, and it’s something deep and warm and rubs all over Eita. He resists a shiver, even as one of those large hands comes back to cup his cheek, tilting his head up even more. At this angle, it would be too easy-- “I wanted to come off as romantic when I mentioned the rose petals. But the look on your face when you told me you didn’t want to see me again… I couldn’t stand the thought of hurting you again, so that’s why I ran the second time.”

Eita gulps. He doesn’t like this. Doesn’t like where this is going, where it’s at. This wasn’t what he was expecting when he chased after the man. An apology, maybe. A confession? Not in a million years.

People don’t actually confess to Eita. People don’t fall for him, don’t crush on him. He’s rude and closed off. His only friend is Iwaizumi, and that’s probably due to them knowing each other since they were kids, and even then he has a hard time leveling their friendship. The few relationships he’s been in ended horribly, either on a romantic level or a physical one once they finally got to know him, so he closed himself off and let his life revolve around his flowers. How could this man whose name he doesn't even know be confessing to him? It’s ridiculous.

He watches the man’s brow furrow, the smile slip away, the burning hot palm against his cheek twitch before disappearing. The man looks infinitely more attractive when he genuinely smiles, but Eita can’t say that. The only thing he can say is--

“I’m sorry.”

They both startle at his cracked, hoarse whisper. The man just stares at him, his lips parting slowly. Eita blinks, starts shaking his head, repeats, “I’m sorry. I--I can’t.”

Before he can think further, Eita runs from the alley and away from probably the last guy who’ll ever like him, trying not to wonder why it hurts so much. This is for the best. Eita isn’t lovable. Around the corner Iwaizumi magically appears, catching him as he stumbles.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

Eita wants to nod, wants to tell him everything is okay, everything will be okay. But he can tell by the concern in Iwaizumi’s gaze that he heard everything, and if there’s one thing Eita hates, it’s liars.

He shakes his head. 

Iwaizumi wraps an arm around his shoulder and doesn’t speak as he guides him home.

>>><<<

The bell dinges daintily when he pushes open the door into the fragrant flower shop. It was a pleasant surprise to see that nothing had changed in the time he’d been away, and once more it has some of his tension draining away.

From the back of the shop comes a muffled, “Sorry, but we’re closing soon,” that has Issei sighing in relief. Third time’s the charm.

He makes his way to the counter to wait, knowing the florist will be out any minute. He lets his eyes wander, and there, on the corner of the counter like usual, is the zen garden he noticed so long ago. And nestled right in the middle of all the various stones is the one he left as a gift. It may not mean anything to the florist, but it has his chest swelling with warmth knowing the rock was kept, even after all their disastrous meetings.

Footsteps pound on the creaky floorboards and a moment later the florist is rounding the doorway from the back, carrying an empty vase. His eyes glance over Issei before he does a double take, and Issei has to reel in his smirk at causing such a reaching. Despite his clammy hands and fluttering heart, he knows he can handle whatever happens next. No more running away.

“What are you doing here?” the florist demands, cheeks reddening and eyes flickering from Issei to other parts of the store and back again. He’s glowering, but it doesn’t look as hostile as before. It looks almost… flustered.

Before he can lose his nerve, Issei gently places one of his favorite projects on the counter between them. The florist’s eyes flicker from him to it and back again, before he finally steps closer to fully inspect it.

The furrow between this brows smooths out as his face slackens, his arms drooping enough to make Issei worry he’ll drop the vase.  
He’s never been a fan of painting, and without a picture of the florist he knows the painting isn’t exactly accurate. But hopefully the vibrancy of the red petals entwined with swirls of rich blue and deep green is enough to make up for it. He tried his best, and it’s been one of his favorite pieces for months.

“I never bought the roses for my friends. The first was just to seem like I wasn’t loitering, and--and so I could get closer to you. I kept comin’ back because I wanted to see you again. I saved every rose until it died; I’ve pressed some and made things like this, all so they wouldn’t go to waste. My roommates think i have some kind of rose fetish because of it.” he ends it with a laugh, hoping to lighten the mood. The florist’s expression goes from slack to somber as he talks, and it starts to churn his stomach.

He clears his throat. “I’m sorry I lied. Sorry I ran. Like I said, you’re a scary guy and I like you. That night… it seemed like I really hurt you, and I didn't want to do that again. But then you chased me into that alley and I thought, ‘This is my chance. I can tell him everything.’ But-but then you ran. And this is the third time this week I’ve come by hoping to catch you and now that I have I realize how horrible and cliche this all sounds.”

He tries to laugh it off again, but even he can hear how hollow and desperate it is. The florist’s lips are pinched together and he hasn’t taken his eyes off the painting. Is it really that bad? Did he fuck up so catastrophically that he’s made a man go catatonic?

“Please say something,” Issei whispers, his heart tearing itself into pieces from anxiety.

The lips pinch even tighter, until they smooth out and the florist’s eyes peer up at Issei from under his bangs, the look almost shy.

“You don’t even know my name.”

_I’ll take it._

Issei grins, immense relief filling him. The florist finally sets down the vase he was holding and wipes his hands on his apron before holding one out.

“Semi Eita. Resident florist and an idiot with a crush.

When their hands clasp, Issei swears he hears angels sing. He never knew a florist’s hands could feel so warm and soft. “Matsukawa Issei. Lovestruck fool. Nice to meet you.”

**Author's Note:**

> semi, fondly staring at the painting of him: is that really how you see me?  
> matsu: nah  
> matsu: you're more beautiful
> 
> [come say hi](http://ushijimaenthusiast.tumblr.com/)


End file.
